From Issue 7: The Shattered Glass

The Shattered Glass Angel LaCanfora This is the time of the shattered glass- The drain clogged with the hairs of my cares and worries and outside, snow is flurrying and I slosh through the slurry of mourning- every noon and night. This is the time of the shattered glass- Green bottles breaking. I’m trying to reach for your hand but mine’s bandaged too tight. I’m like a pilot light airplane crashing into an empty home on a hillside forest. This is the time of the shattered glass- Champagne flutes and busted guitars litter the floor after the celebration and gyrations…